Sister Frost Solva took the reins, and the sturdy Guevaque boar rested beside Freina, the scarred mother of Winter's Claws. The unkempt mane of the beast snorted in protest, and a cloud of heat turned into mist.

"Good, Ice Fang." Solva said. She gently patted the violent mount, the bone talisman and totem wrapped around her wrist rattling.

A biting cold wind blew through the barren land, but there was one man in this raiding group who stood out - Solva didn't wear a heavy fur coat. Her bare arms, coiled with indigo tattoos, were directly exposed to the cold elements, but she felt no discomfort, for the threat of the cold had long since failed against her.

The majestic figure of Freina, the Scar Mother, sat on the other Guvasque boar, a fanged beast even larger than Solva's mount. It roared irritably, one hoof slamming heavily on the ground, glaring at Solva maliciously. Freina kicked it hard to silence it.

The Scar Mother is a ruthless, experienced warrior with numerous bloody victories, but Solva can't just be intimidated. Although her name has not yet spread throughout Freljord like the Scarred Mother, she is a shaman, a person who dreams of the will of the gods, and in Freeljord, even the most powerful matriarch knows how to respect the old faith.

The rest of the Winterclaw Raiders also held on to the reins, waiting for their Scar Mother and Shamanka to give instructions. They marched at a steady pace almost all day, heading east deep into the territory of Avarosa. For the first time in hours, they stopped, so they slipped off the saddle, stretched their backs, and moved their numb legs.

The wind tightened, whipped at Solva with snow and ice.

"The storm is coming." She said.

Freina didn't respond, her face covered in old scars, her eyes still looking south. Freina's right eye was cloudy and she couldn't see, and there were a few strands of white in her jet-black hair—all of her flesh wounds were the marks of this world. Within the Winterclaw Clan, scars are proof of survival, a source of pride and reverence.

"Is there anything out of the ordinary?" Solva asked.

Freena nodded, continuing to look into the distance.

Solva narrowed, but she struggled to see in the increasingly bad weather.

"I didn't see anything."

"You have two good eyes, but you're blinder than me, Niko." Freina snapped.

Solva clenched his fists, hoarfrost formed on his knuckles, and his pupils turned icy blue. It didn't matter, he controlled his anger and forced himself to take a deep breath.

It is clear that Scarmother Freina, like most of the Winterclaw Clan, is dismissive of her and her beliefs. In addition, Solva joined the raiding group uninvited. Undoubtedly, Freena believed that the addition of this shamanka to the team would interfere with those who were prone to superstition, disrupt their goals, and even threaten her authority.

In fact, it was a vague but strong instinct that urged Solva to join the raid, and the Scar's initial objection didn't work, and she had long learned that it was a gift to believe in this inexplicable impulse. The gods wanted her to be here, but for what purpose, she didn't know.

"Well, a mile to the south," Freena pointed over, "near the raised rock." See? ”

Solva finally nodded. A lonely figure was faintly visible, like a shadow on the snow. How Freyna saw it at first, she couldn't imagine at all. Solva frowned, and she felt a strong itch on the back of her neck. Whoever that figure is, it's a little strange......

The wind blew, and the figure was out of sight, but Solva's uneasiness was still strong.

"Avarosa's spies?"

"No," Freina shook her head, "this man is walking deeper along a moraine. Even Freljord's little furry boy wouldn't make such a mistake. ”

"It must be a foreigner. But why is it so deep into the Northland? ”

Flena shrugged. "The people of Alvarosa don't follow the old ways. They traded with the southerners rather than plundering outright. Maybe this guy is a lost trader. ”

Freina spat contemptuously, then tugged at the reins, and drove Güvaque on. The other warriors followed her lead, twisted the heavy head of their mount, and returned to the ridge to accompany them, heading east. Only Solva stayed put, trying to see through the storm.

"That person may have spotted us too. If our whereabouts are brought to the Avarosa tribe, they will be prepared in advance. ”

"That idiot won't bring any news to anyone, maybe only to some god on the other side of life and death." Freena exclaimed. "The storm is getting worse. That man would die before he could survive the night. Let's go, we've been delayed for a long time. ”

But there was something that kept Solva in her mind, and she still stood at the edge of the ridge, looking back in the direction of the lone stranger, only now she could see at most a dozen paces away. Is that why she was summoned here?

"Niko!" Freena shouted, "Are you coming?" ”

Solva glanced at Freina, then looked back to the south.

"Nope."

With a gentle clamp, Solva carried her Guvasque boar down the hill, a satisfied smile on her face as she heard Freina curse behind her.

"We follow her, don't we?"

It was Brockvar Iron Fist, a burly ice warrior who had been her fan and occasionally her lover for nearly a decade.

"If she has a bad deal, God will be angry with our tribe." Brockwal added.

If she had to pick someone from all of Freljord to fight alongside her, Flena would most likely choose Brockval. He was half a head taller than her second-strongest warrior, and powerful enough to lift a Guevaque on the ground, and was well worth trusting. He lives to fight, and he's good at fighting. He carried a broadsword on his back, and sighed.

The sword is a legend among the Winterclaw Clan, passed down from generation to generation among the Iceborn for hundreds of years. An immortal ice was embedded in the hilt of Winter Sigh's sword, and cold hoarfrost wrapped the blade. If anyone other than the Iceborn tried to pick it up, including Freina, they would suffer immensely, even death.

If he had any weakness, it was superstition. Everything he saw was an omen and a vision, such as the crow's flight patterns or the blood splatters on the snow, and the biggest headache for Freena was that he especially worshipped the self-righteous shamanka, even thinking that the path she traveled was a holy place. To make matters worse, his unmistakable respect seemed to infect the other warriors under his command as well. She saw several people nodding in agreement, and they all whispered in the wind.

Unable to listen to reason, Freina made a gesture, and the raider swung in a half-circle, following Sister Frost.

Flena was right about one thing: whoever the lone stranger was, he didn't know Freljord as well as a furry child.

Watching the man walk wearily through the thick snow, Solva knew that if he turned away, he wouldn't survive more than an hour. In fact, it was a small miracle that this man was able to go so far, and it was clear that this man was very unprepared for the rigors of the ice field, and even lacked the most basic sense of safe pathfinding.

As she drew closer, the cold wind of the moor didn't bother her, and suddenly she saw the man fall to the ground. Again and again, the Gentile tried in vain to get up, apparently exhausted